


At The Mention of Strawberries

by tymedfire



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Closure, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Freya is only mentioned, Gen, Gwen is also mentioned, Heartbreak, Heavy Angst, Kinda, Lancelot is alive because I said so, These guys have a lot of feelings and so do I, excessive use of ellipses, excessive use of the words "punch in the face"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-25 07:21:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15635934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tymedfire/pseuds/tymedfire
Summary: “She’s the only person Merlin has ever loved as much as he loves you, and you took her from him.”





	At The Mention of Strawberries

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vennat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vennat/gifts).



> Thanks to Vennat for inspiring this fic and Mssstilinski for discussing this concept with me for over half an hour at IHOP, then editing the work. She's the sweetest, folks, get yourself a friend like her.

Lancelot and Merlin are out picking herbs. Or at least, that’s what Arthur thinks. In reality, the two friends are enjoying an afternoon just relaxing after a hard week. Lancelot is slowly but surely getting over Gwen, and Merlin has taken to only half-teasingly pointing out every eligible girl that he sees for his friend. Lancelot takes the teasing with grace, though not without some slight ribbing of his own. 

They’ve been in their preferred clearing for maybe half an hour, sitting in comfortable silence, when Lancelot suddenly asks, “Merlin. I’ve never heard you talk of love of your own before.”

Merlin can sense what’s coming before it comes, and he silently wills Lancelot not to ask.

“Have you ever been in love before?”

No such luck. 

Merlin doesn’t answer, but he does stop braiding the long blades of grass he had been fiddling with. 

At Merlin’s silence, Lancelot moves closer to him and gently places his hand on Merlin’s shoulder. His voice is soft when he speaks. “I’m sorry, my friend. You don’t have to tell me.” 

And what can Merlin say to that? He hasn’t spoken of Freya in length to anyone. Gaius is the only person he’s ever told, and then his explanation had been brief. He never could tell any of his friends in Camelot, because then he’d be admitting to something that would get him killed, and he had never told his mother because writing about her had always been too painful, and he hadn’t wanted any time he’d visited her to be overshadowed by grief. 

But this is Lancelot; Lancelot, who knows every secret Merlin has except this one, and never judges him or condemns him. And… he wants to tell someone about her. He wants  _ someone _ to know how special she was -- how much she meant to Merlin.

“Her name was Freya. She liked strawberries and lakes and I…” _I got her killed._ “I loved her. She was sweet and innocent. She’d had a hard life. She was cursed. At night she became this creature that she had no control over. The creature -- a bastet, it was called -- killed people. Freya, though, she would never hurt a soul. She was too gentle. Too kind.”  
“Was?” Lancelot asks quietly.   
“She had been captured by a witch finder and brought to Camelot. I set her free. I was going to take her out of the city, to safety. I was… going to run away with her.” He feels Lancelot jolt at the admission. “But I was too late. She turned and they found her. He stabbed her.”  
“The knights?” Lancelot asks, breathless. 

Merlin is crying now. Talking about Freya always makes him cry. He misses her. 

“A knight killed her?”

Merlin sucks in a breath. He has never told this to anyone, not even Gaius. He could never make himself say it. His tears turn into sobs and he tries to draw air into his lungs but he can’t. Lancelot goes from rubbing soothing circles on his back to holding him, back to chest, and telling him to breathe in an instant. 

“Arthur,” he manages to gasp. “Arthur killed her. He stabbed the bastet and… she died. I found her and I got her to turn back and she bled out in my arms.” 

Merlin feels Lancelot tense behind him, seemingly at a loss for what to say. After a few moments of tense almost-silence, broken only by Merlin’s hitching breaths, Lancelot finally speeks. 

“He… Arthur. Arthur killed the woman you loved?” Lancelot already knows the answer, so Merlin doesn’t respond. He just focuses on trying to get his breathing and tears under control. Once he has, Lancelot lets go and moves to the side, but keeps his hand on Merlin’s back, as if he can’t make himself cease contact with the man. His thumb starts rubbing back and forth soothingly, though Merlin can’t say if he’s trying to comfort Merlin or himself. He looks distraught, and some other emotion that Merlin can’t quite identify on Lancelot’s usually cheery face. 

“He doesn’t know, does he?” Lancelot asks softly.

“Of course he doesn’t. It’s Arthur.” Merlin replies, equally as soft. There is no malice behind his words. There are some things Arthur is never meant to know, and Merlin will never tell him. 

Lancelot’s face twists into something Merlin has never seen before, and can’t quite identify. It makes Merlin shudder. 

“He… he should know. He should know what he did, Merlin.” Lancelot’s voice is hard, and Merlin realizes that he’s angry. Really, truly angry. Merlin has never seen the emotion on Lancelot before, and he isn’t sure he likes it. 

“He didn’t do it _maliciously_. He didn’t know that the bastet was a person.”  
“He _should have known_. He should have been educated enough to know that. He shouldn’t have been in the position to kill someone innocent, Merlin! And he should know, now, what he did to Freya and to you. He should apologize and beg for forgiveness.”

“No.” Merlin’s voice is hard. “No, he will never know. I don’t want him to know. Don’t tell him, Lancelot.  _ Please _ . I don’t want him to know.”

At Merlin’s pleading words, all the fight seems to drain out of Lancelot. In a weary voice, he says,   
“You’re a stronger man than I, Merlin. To be around someone who has harmed someone I loved every day… I don’t know that I’d be able to.”

Merlin grimaces. “I forgave him.”

“But he doesn’t know. He isn’t aware that he needed forgiveness, that there was something to atone for.”

“I know. Because he’d blame himself. He would never be able to forgive himself, and he doesn’t need that, especially not right now.”  
Lancelot is quiet as they prepare to leave the clearing. It isn’t until the pair are halfway back to the gates that he speaks, not looking at Merlin.

“But what about what you need?”

Merlin doesn’t have an answer for that. The rest of the journey is made in silence.

 

* * *

 

Four days later, Lancelot finds himself in the tavern with Merlin, Arthur’s closest knights, and Arthur himself all at a table in the back corner of the Rising Sun. Over the last four days Merlin has told Lancelot more about Freya and his short time with her. With every small thing that Merlin revealed, Lancelot could feel his sadness and rage increase for his friend. Merlin had done so much for Arthur and Camelot, and they had repaid him by killing someone he loved. And he knows. In his mind, he  _ knows _ that Arthur had no idea, that he was just trying to protect his people from a beast trying to hurt them, but that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t need to take responsibility for Merlin’s heartbreak.

Lancelot knows that the relationship between Merlin and Arthur has always been one full of banter and playful insults. He knows that neither Arthur nor Merlin usually mean the things that they say to each other, but recently it’s been hard for his brain to get his heart to understand this. Every time Arthur says something derogatory to Merlin, Lancelot has a hard time not punching his king in the face. 

Lancelot has tucked himself and the mug of ale he’d been nursing all night in the furthest corner away from his friends as possible, unwilling to jest with Arthur. In fact, he can’t bring himself to smile at anyone, even Merlin, for the rage that seems to constantly be boiling just under the surface these past few days. Instead, he watches Merlin and Arthur. Most of the other knights have wandered off the different parts of the tavern to mingle. Gwaine is still near them, already drunk and challenging everybody who walks by to an arm wrestling contest. 

Merlin is grinning into his drink as he watches Gwaine fail miserably to push his, admittedly massive, opponents arm to the table, when a pretty young girl approaches him. She looks younger than even Merlin and she holds a bowl of fresh mixed berries in her hands. 

Most of the occupants of the castle know of Merlin’s taste for berries, if only from how loudly Arthur complains when Merlin swipes some of his, so Lancelot isn’t surprised that the that’s what the girl had thought to bring over to woo him.

And attempt to woo she does. Lancelot watches Merlin’s eyes widen as the girl leans toward him, dress pulled down and showing cleavage, and smiles sweetly at him. 

“Hi,” she says. 

“Oh, um, hello?” It comes out as more of a question than Merlin was probably going for. He turns slightly toward her and the girl takes that as permission to plop down in his lap. Merlin looks so startled that even Lancelot has to fight back a laugh. 

“Berry?” She asks as she holds a strawberry up to his mouth.

“Oh, ha, well…” He trails off as he catches sight of the strawberry. His face freezes in an expression of pain for a second before quickly morphing to apologetic and says, “No, thank you. Have a nice night.” He gently pushes the girl off his lap and smiles at her before turning back to his drink and taking a gulp, the dismissal clear.

Once the girl has walked away, Arthur lets out a loud laugh. “What, Merlin, she not good enough for you?” 

Merlin gives him a tight smile. “Just not interested. When would I have time for romance between washing your socks and keeping you alive?” 

Lancelot tunes out Arthur’s response. He’s found that’s the best course to take these last few days to avoid doing something he might later regret. Instead, he focuses on breathing and watching Elyan pull a pretty lady to the empty middle of the room and trying to dance with her. This gets multiple yells of approval, and suddenly the room is full of couples dancing. He’s honestly more than a little surprised that Gwaine hasn’t joined in, but he stays seated at their table, keeping a close eye on Merlin and shooting Lancelot questioning (albeit drunk) looks like he has been all night.

_ Huh _ ,  Lancelot thinks.  _ I guess I’m not the only one who noticed either of our moods _ . Though, Lancelot should really give Gwaine more credit; when it comes to Merlin, Gwaine always notices.

Lancelot’s attention is drawn back to Merlin and Arthur when their bickering abruptly ceases. Another girl has approached, this one much more shyly, and quietly asks Merlin for a dance. Merlin smiles sweetly at her and gently declines, claiming two left feet and the want not to break somebody’s feet. 

Arthur rolls his eyes at his servant. “You know, if you keep turning down every girl who approaches you, you’re going to die alone.”

Merlin cocks a half-smile at him and says, “Maybe that’s the point.”

Arthur huffs and rolls his eyes again. “Well, you don’t even deserve a dance then.”

It’s said playfully. He doesn’t truly mean it. Lancelot knows this, he does. He knows it was a joke, but something about the words pulls Lancelot up short.  _ You don’t deserve it _ . It’s a combination of an anger that has had four days to fester with no release, and the utter unjustness of the words, even if they are a joke.

Lancelot snaps.

Before anybody really knows what’s happening, Lancelot has his king pinned against the back wall of the tavern, looking at him like he’s lost his head. Maybe he has.

He doesn’t really care. Arthur can throw him in the dungeon if he wants, but he has something to say.

“You have no idea what that man deserves. You treat him like - like a  _ servant _ when you claim he is a friend and you say all these derogatory things to him when  _ all _ he’s ever done is serve and sacrifice for you.  _ All for you _ .”

Merlin is grasping at the back of Lancelot’s tunic, trying to pull him off Arthur, and whispering for Lancelot to, “stop, Lancelot, please, it’s alright!” He doesn’t notice how the tavern has gone silent, all watching the scene in astonishment. Leon has moved forward, a hand on his sword in preparation to stop Lancelot should he go any further. Elyan and Percival have also walked away from their spots on the other side of the room, closer to their brother, eyes wide. Gwaine leans back, drink still in hand, eyes moving between Merlin, Lancelot, and Arthur, his brow furrowed as if he has finally put something together, but his drunk brain can’t quite figure out what.

“You don’t even know. You really don’t know. Merlin has thrown away everything in his life for you willingly! Every chance at happiness he’s ever had has been sacrificed for you or taken away by you!” Lancelot’s grip on Arthur’s tunic is so tight his knuckles are white.

Merlin’s hands have moved from the back of Lancelot’s tunic to his arms, still pulling. 

“Lancelot, please. You’re making a scene. Calm down.”

Lancelot barely hears him. His rage is all-consuming like it’s never been before. 

“You make fun of him and insult him about women and love-”  
“ _No_ , Lancelot-” 

“- when you have no right to! You may be the king, but that doesn’t give you the right to treat others as beneath you. You’re supposed to know that.”

“ _ Lancelot! _ ” Merlin’s voice shakes.

“You ask if he even deserves a dance, if he even  _ deserves _ -” Lancelot takes a deep breath, but it does nothing to calm him. His fists have pulled Arthur so that they are nose to nose, breathing each other’s air. Merlin’s hands have moved to Lancelot’s own collar, the only thing in between king and knight. His pulling has become more desperate, and his whisper’s quieter. If he gets any more desperate, he will do magic, and that would be disastrous, so Lancelot knows he needs to end this. He knows Merlin doesn’t want him to say what he’s about to say, but he has to. Merlin deserves better than he’s gotten, but he won’t accept that he deserves better, so Lancelot will just have to let Arthur know instead. He glances quickly, sadly, at his friend, before fixing his gaze back on Arthur.

“He loved someone once, but you drove a sword through her stomach.”

Merlin’s hands go slack and he whispers something that sounds to Lancelot like, “It’s  _ my _ fault she’s dead.” Arthur’s face has morphed to one of shock and horror. His mouth opens and closes as he tries to comprehend what was just said to him. 

The silence of the tavern is broken only by the sound of soft footsteps and a door opening and closing. It takes Lancelot a second to realize that it’s Merlin that has left. Slowly, Lancelot releases Arthur. He needs to leave. He needs to cool down before he does something he regrets. (No matter the heartbreak on Merlin’s face, Lancelot can’t bring himself to regret what he said. Arthur needed to hear it.) 

He holds Arthur’s gaze for a few more beats before turning his back to his king and walking away. He pauses as he gets to the door when he hears the sounds of a chair scraping against the floor. When he turns he sees Gwaine, in all his drunken, enraged glory, lunging at Arthur. 

That seems to break the hold on the entire tavern. Leon grabs Gwaine and pulls him back, but not before he lands a punch to Arthur’s jaw. The other patrons start talking loudly. Elyan and Percival make their way through the crowd to Leon and Gwaine.

In the chaos, Lancelot exits and starts back toward the castle.

 

* * *

 

It’s a few hours later, in the dead of night, when Lancelot sees Arthur again. He’s in Merlin’s room, having gone there after the tavern to explain himself to his friend. Merlin wasn’t there, so Lancelot had decided to wait for his return. 

Hours later, and he still hasn’t returned, though that apparently doesn’t mean that Lancelot will be short on company. When Arthur enters the room, softly calling Merlin’s name, Lancelot is surprised. He’d have thought Arthur would avoid Merlin, given the revelations of the night.

Arthur freezes when he sees Lancelot sitting on Merlin’s bed, but instead of retreating he squares his shoulders and moves to sit down on the bed next to him.

“Lancelot,” Arthur says in greeting. He sits stiffly for a second before slumping suddenly. “Is what you said true? Did I… did I really kill someone Merlin loved?” Arthur’s voice is smaller than Lancelot thinks he’s ever heard it before. If the circumstances were different he would smile at the humanity. 

“Yes,” Lancelot says, voice equally as quiet. “The details are not mine to share, but… yes.”

“And the subject itself was your to share?”

“She’s the only person Merlin has ever loved as much as he loves you, and you took her from him.” The words are said with no bite; they are simply stated, a soft, sad fact. Lancelot doesn’t look up to see Arthur’s reaction to his words. 

“Merlin would never have shared it himself. He thinks… His perception of what he deserves and does not is skewed. He was holding his sadness, his anger, in, denying it even existed. It was unhealthy. I… could have gone about it a better way, I admit, but those things needed to be said. It needed to be out in the open.” Lancelot looks at Arthur until he matches his gaze. “I will not apologize for doing what I think is right by a friend. He deserves… much more than you know, Arthur. Much more than I can tell you or than he will admit.”

Arthur looks at him for a few moments, his gaze thoughtful and more than a little sad. He nods and they lapse into silence, both thinking, until the early hours of the morning when the door finally opens to reveal Merlin.

He looks terrible. His eyes are red rimmed, as if he’s been crying a lot, and there are dark bags under them. He visibly did not get any rest the night before. 

He, like Arthur, freezes when he spots them. Lancelot knows that his king and his friend need to talk, so he stands, stretches a bit, and walks toward Merlin. When he reaches his friend, he stops.

“I’m sorry for the pain it caused you, my friend, but I do not regret my words. You deserve closure.” Merlin looks at him for a beat before stepping fully into the room and closing the door. Lancelot takes a step back to give Merlin space. Merlin meets his eyes for barely a second before his arm rears back and he punches Lancelot in the face.

Lancelot really shouldn’t be surprised at how badly it actually hurts. He’s definitely going to have a bruise later, but he can’t really fault Merlin. He deserved the punch. Now, at least, his face matches Arthur’s.

When he looks back up, some of the tension in Merlin’s shoulders has eased. “Gaius will give you something for that.” With that, he opens the door, a clear gesture for Lancelot to leave. 

He does so, bowing slightly to his king. When he gets to the foot of the stares he hears his name called and he turns back to Merlin. Merlin meets his eyes, nods, and Lancelot knows he is forgiven; not completely, but enough for now. He nods back, smiles, and turns toward Gaius’s raised eyebrow and salve.

 

* * *

 

Merlin’s knuckles burn a little. Lancelot was right, in his own way, to do what he did. That didn’t mean Merlin wasn’t pissed about how he did it. The punch released tension that Merlin hadn’t realized was there until it was gone. 

Some of the tension creeps back in when he turns to face Arthur. He doesn’t sit down. Arthur speaks first.

“I… I don’t know what to say, Merlin. I truly don’t.”

“Honestly? I don’t know either.” 

Arthur sighs and rubs a hand roughly down his face. Merlin thinks he looks just as bad as he probably looks.

“You didn’t come back. Where have you been?” The question isn’t accusatory or forceful, just tired. 

Merlin suddenly feels how tired he is, too. He sits down heavily next to his king, elbows propped on his knees and head lowered between his shoulder blades. “Gwen’s old house. It was closer than here and there were less people on the way.”

“I’m sorry, Merlin.”

Merlin can’t help the bitterness that seeps into his laugh. “For what?”

Arthur doesn’t respond for a second. “What was her name?” 

“Freya,” Merlin breathes. His voice is barely audible but he knows Arthur hears him. “Her name was Freya. She was a druid and she was the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. She was sweet and soft and kind and she never wanted to hurt anybody.” A few tears escape Merlin’s eyes and he doesn’t try to stop them. “She loved strawberries. And it’s my fault that she’s dead.”

Arthur jerks at the admission. “What? What do you mean?”

Merlin’s teary gaze meets Arthur’s. “I didn’t save her. I was helping her escape the witch finder and Uther and… I wasn’t fast enough. I didn’t get her away. It was my job to protect her and I  _ failed _ .”

“No.” The word is the most forceful he’s heard from Arthur all night. Arthur twists around and places his hands on Merlin’s shoulders, shaking him slightly. “No, Merlin, you listen here. That was not your fault.  _ You _ are not to blame for Freya’s death. You’re not. You did your best to save her. I shouldn’t have followed orders so blindly. I should have asked questions and made sure that she had done something wrong instead of just believing my father. Freya’s death is on me, Merlin. Do you hear me?  _ She did not die because of you _ . Stop blaming yourself. I’m the one-” Arthur’s voice breaks and Merlin can see tears in his eyes. It surprises him, though he knows it shouldn’t. He supposes he’s just surprised because he never expected that kind of empathy and guilt to be directed toward him. “I’m the one who killed her. I killed your beloved, Merlin and I’m so- I’m so sorry. If anybody ever hurt Guinevere I… I don’t know what I’d do. I’d kill them. And you’ve dealt with me every day since then, you… you’re stronger than I ever realized. Stronger than anybody I’ve ever known. I’m so sorry, my friend. I’m  _ so sorry _ .” 

By the end of his speech there are tears streaming down both men’s faces. Arthur’s hands are squeezing Merlin’s shoulders so he lifts his arms and pulls his king into a hug. Arthur freezes for a moment before bringing his hand up to cup the back of Merlin’s head. 

His voice barely above a whisper, Merlin says in Arthur’s ear, “There’s nothing to forgive.”

Arthur shakes his head, then pulls back. He stares at Merlin in wonder for a second before shaking his head again. “But there is, Merlin. There is a lot to forgive, and I understand if you can’t forgive me now. You shouldn’t. I’ve done nothing to earn it, but I promise you, I will try.” 

They stare at each other for a long moment. Slowly, Merlin nods.

“What… Lancelot said I’ve taken more than just Freya from you. What else have you sacrificed for me, Merlin?”

“More than a person should, but nothing that I regret.”

After a second, Arthur nods back, accepting that he isn’t going to details tonight. 

He hasn’t forgiven Arthur for Freya, or for a lot of other things, he realizes. That’s okay, though. He will, eventually, and Arthur will stop at nothing to try and earn that forgiveness. And he’ll succeed, Merlin knows, because he’s Arthur and he’s Merlin, and they are destined to be by each other’s side; this secret didn’t tear them apart as Merlin feared it would.

It gives him hope for his other secrets. One day, Arthur will know everything. And it will be okay.

“Hey, Arthur?”

“Yes, Merlin?”

“You said the right thing.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Have a blessed day.


End file.
